


Run

by pocketprince



Category: Latin Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Gender Issues, Gender or Sex Swap, Multi, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketprince/pseuds/pocketprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first part of a likely-not-to-be-finished series that played with genders and sexualities of the Latin Hetalia cast with a few original characters. Focusing on Trans!Male Brazil and Trans!Female Chile, this series attempted to be ship-free and focus on character growth. I hope you enjoy this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invitation

“I’m thinking about cutting my hair again,” she hears Luciana say. They are on lunch break, eating whatever Luciana made, something Manu has been too distracted to really consider.

 

She’s been staring at Luciana’s shirt. Luciana always dressed boyishly but today she is wearing a shirt that hides her chest in such a way that if Manu’s father had been around to hear her speak of cutting her hair, Manu was sure the man would launch into a tirade of how much a token lesbian Luciana was. (And how much Manuel’s father would implore Manuel to ‘fix her’.) The thought sends a shiver down Manu’s spine and she finally seems to come to attention when Luciana speaks again.

“You’re listening, right?” she asks, and Manuel shrugs.

“I mean, it’s your hair,” she tells Luciana, fiddling with her fork, “Do what you want.”

“You’re about as helpful as Martín,” Luciana sighs, going to the teacher’s lounge sink to wash her dishes. “He’d tell me not to. I think I will, though; the salon that’s nearby is gonna close soon. Manager said something about ‘moving up’.”

“Is this your way of ‘subtly’ asking me to drive you there, or are you just that excited to share?” Manu asks, giving up on yet another meal and rolling down the sleeves of her sweater. Luciana smiles for a moment, though she wrinkles her nose at Manu’s lack of appetite, and shrugs.

“I like sharing with you,” she says, “But you can totally drive me. I’ll even pay for gas.”

“Hernández?” the stylist asks, looking at Manuel as if he is looking right through her (which disgusts her; the stupid stylist is supposed to be talking to Luciana, not Manuel.) Manuel shifts uncomfortably at the clarity of the stare, and because she isn’t really sure if the stylist is male at all. He’s like an androgynous ball of pure fashion, and Manuel finds herself envying him a little.

“He was in here last week, yeah,” the stylist continues, his islander’s accent carrying over hte butterfly-flutter of his scissors. “Don’t you worry about him. I will give you a cut even he can’t bitch about.”

Manu watches as Luciana laughs, seemingly comforted by the comment, but she knows– and Luciana does, too– that Martín will make any such decision hell for whoever takes out the balance in his world. She knows, too, that Miguel will earnestly ask why Luciana cut off all her pretty hair– and knows Luciana will laugh it off and retreat later.

She wishes Luciana wouldn’t do this. It’s bad enough having to imagine it for herself, and to see Luciana break the unspoken rules of every group they’ve known– it sends Manuel’s skin crawling.

She remembers a time, too, when Martín wasn’t a prick about things– before he came out as the gayest thing their side of Buenos Aires (as if they hadn’t already known; no one longed after footballers and ballad singers quite the way Martín Hernández did) and instead of staying gleefully with them, started to hang out with a group Manuel affectionately referred to as “Los Cabrónes de Santa Maria.” Even Luciana could stand him back before then, but afterward, they both found themselves more eager to stay away from Martín and his band of rainbow-spotted brothers. 

Manuel’d given them a chance, really, back when she’d been stupid enough to date him. (How could he love her when she’d never felt like a man? SHe counted it among the most stupid of her decisions.) He’d been better before then, and even if they knew he’d gone nuts, Manuel and Luciana still found themselves craving his approval and Miguel– Miguel was simply too nice of a guy to believe Martín was as mean as he’d become.

When Manuel looked up from her phone, Luciana was grinning from ear to ear. The stylist tousled Luciana’s thick locks between his fingers, cropped short and boyish in a way that made Luciana’s eyes light up.

“I like it,” she said, almost shyly, grinning as she pushed her own fingers through it.

“It’s a handsome cut for you, dear,” the stylist spoke again, smiling almost sinisterly if not for the softness of his eyes, “So come see me at the agency if you need it trimmed again. Ask for Matías Milla.”

Luciana accepts his card and loops her arm around Manuel’s, grinning up at her so hard Manu wonders if maybe her cheeks wouldn’t burst.

“The kids are gonna love it,” she says, and Manuel isn’t surprised she’s speaking about her students already.

“I know they will,” Manuel offers quietly as they walk out, hoping that Luciana’s reception at home will be at least half as decent. Still, she’s rather sure not even a small truck could phase the amount of sunshine Luciana gives off, and almost forgets about the afternoon rain dripping down her windshield.

 

———

 

Manuel isn’t so lucky as not to notice the rain later that night, sitting in her bed with her hands on her jeans, not wanting to get undressed. The dark is cool and comforting, but the day has been alarming.

“She doesn’t need a cut like that,” Martín had said, rolling his eyes and flicking a limp wrist (that Manuel wanted to only grab and use to slap him in the face for it). “Girls like playing with each other’s hair. Isn’t that the whole thing about being gay?”

“I’m not gay, Princess Martín,” Luciana grumbled, sinking in the seat she’d taken at the coffee house with them and getting a little embarrassed at the look the small, curvy waitress gave her for the comment. “Not that it’s your business. I just wanted short hair.”

“It was pretty,” Miguel volunteered, trying to break up the tension. “I mean, it’s cute now, I’m sure I’ll get used to it! I just… liked it the other way. But it’s cool!”

“Thank you, Miguel,” Luciana grumbled, crossing her legs and pushing at her napkins, guzzling down the last of her coffee. Miguel shrank, running his hands through his own hair. Nothing had been right since Martín came out. Everyone was always angry and upset, and Miguel just didn’t get it. He couldn’t seem to fix it, either, just just like he couldn’t help his brother seem to get along with everyone else. He never seemed to know what to say, and once again had probably screwed things up.

The waitress came around again, and Luciana grabbed her arm, asked for her check, and left.

“Was she alright?” Gold-flecked green eyes surveyed the group of three, wondering which of them would answer first.

“She’ll be fine, Daniela,” mouthed Martín, oblivious to the way Manuel shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and clenched her fists, “She just needs to get over her little hissy fit.”

And as Daniela walked away, Miguel took the chance to talk. “I don’t get it,” he breathed, leaning far too close to Manuel for her comfort, “Did she not feel pretty, or something? I mean, I just… I don’t know what to say.”

Manuel shrugged, starting to get up. “I don’t know. Maybe you should ask her.” When the door chimes shut again, Miguel looked to Martín– who still had no answer.

Manuel can’t get their voices out of her head as she sits in the dark, musing over her options.   
They’d be worse to her. At least Luciana’s not too out of the norm– girls were cutting their hair short all the time, but men didn’t wear dresses. Martín would go on his tirades and Miguel would give her that slack-jawed, blank-faced stare– they’d think she was insane. And maybe she was, because her father always acted like it. Maybe he was right, maybe he was right to be disappointed and wish is son would stop looking at dolls and playing in her mother’s jewellery. 

Even if he was right, there was no fixing it but playing the game every day.

She shifts her hands down over her jeans and finally pulls them off, getting ready for bed. The last act of the game is always hardest, and she’s tired, but she pulls herself under her sheets to sleep. There is work to do tomorrow, classes to pay for, people to impress. Manuel wonders if maybe, if she had the sunshine Luciana did, maybe it would seem like there was a purpose to all this work.

The sunshine girl sits in her own apartment, cross-legged in her spandex and sports bra, and covers her chest with her arms. Martín’s stupid, and she knows it, but his words shake her to the core.

Something isn’t right. Nothing is ever right, and she can’t place it, and it makes tears sting at her vision and she doesn’t understand why. Luciana pushes her hands through her hair again, biting the dry skin from her lips until they bleed and she can taste the metallic tang under her tongue.

 

Tastes human to her. 

Why then, can’t she just be happy showing off that humanity, flaunting it in the faces of her friends, teasing the little boys in class when they say she’s so pretty? She doesn’t want that, and she doesn’t understand, because she feels her best when people look at her face instead of her chest, when she’s dreaming that she is tall and handsome and commands attention, when she catches colds and her voice becomes low and makes her grin. Luciana doesn’t understand why she just can’t be normal, and stop regretting letting men have the dominating hand on dates with her, and stop scaring off the women who want someone ‘more feminine’.

Martín must be right, and she must have made a mistake, but the image in the mirror is starting to make her happier, so she will pretend that he isn’t right, and turns on the shower.

———-

For a few days, everything is fine. Martín’s temper cools, table talk turns back to the muffins Daniela brings them, and Luciana brags about how her gym classes love to touch her new haircut. 

Miguel is quieter than usual. It seems to him as though every time he opens his mouth, he says the wrong thing. He’s sure Luciana isn’t mad at him anymore, but things just aren’t worth the risk, he feels. He misses the days no one focused on such weird things; everyone just got along and wasn’t at each other’s throats.

He doesn’t get it. He was never the kid who had any interest in boys, or in wearing girl’s clothes, or in girls who dressed in boy’s clothes. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like them– no, it was rare to find a human that Miguel didn’t want to make friends with, but the way people acted had never brought about so many problems before.

He wishes they could all just forget about it. If Luciana wanted to cut her hair, alright! And if Martín and Manuel were gay, that was alright too. He just wants them to stop being mad, and to stop getting mad at him. Still, how could he fix anything?

Manuel simply seems to stop speaking. She is complacent lately. She’s been thinking too much; wondering why, exactly, she’s even still around. That Friday she exits the library of the school she and Luciana work at on a friday evening, waiting for Luciana at the entrance of the school. Manuel opens her pack of cigarettes, pulls one out, and lights it as inconspicuously as possible.

“You’re not supposed to smoke on school grounds,” Luciana says, and Manuel almost jumps. “You’re a weird guy, Manuel. You’re gonna kill your lungs like that.”

“I’m not sure I mind,” Manuel replies, letting a long breath of smoke spill from between her lips. “You want one?”

Luciana rolls her eyes and takes a breath from the one Manuel has lit, coughs, and wipes her mouth. “You keep it.” 

She leans against the wall to wait for Manuel to finish; she only smokes when there’s a problem. When Manuel doesn’t speak, Luciana does it for her. “You’re sad a lot more lately,” she says, tucking her arms into her hooded jacket and rubbing them for warmth, “Don’t you have anything that makes you happy?”

Manuel shrugs and shifts from one foot to the other, keeping her elbows close to her sides and curling inward a bit.

“No,” she answers finally, and Luciana simply leans against Manuel’s back. 

“The kids keep me happy,” she admits, “but lately I feel like… like I just can’t.”

Manuel looks back over her shoulder, staring at the mess of brown hair that has buried its face in the back of her sweater. “You’re always happy.”

“Not anymore,” Luciana answers too quickly, whining a little into the cotton knit and shoving her hands into her sweatpants, shaking her head. “Nothing fits, nothing’s right.”

Manuel is quiet, because she knows that feeling, and she’s lived with it every day of her life, and her throat is heavy with a stone-like lump she didn’t know was coming. The smoke tastes like ash, and she extinguishes the cigarette on the ground.

“Why can’t you be happy?” Luciana asks.

The words that come from Manuel’s mouth are not what she intends.

“Because I’m not Manuel,” she breathes, feeling the words bubble from her mouth like rolling waves, spilling before she can stop herself. “Because I’m not a man, I’ve never been one, and I have to live my life like I am, and all for the sake of waking up tomorrow and doing the same thing. And I just– I don’t know why I’m waking up anymore, because I can’t be happy like this, Luciana. I can’t.”

She wipes her eyes, feeling nauseous and stupid. Of all the people she could possibly have thrown this kind of shit up on, at least it’s Luciana.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, “That was–”

“No,” Luciana stops her, pushing her own hair out of her face.

“No, it– it all makes sense,” she breathes, her voice growing in excitement. “I’m not a girl. You are. I’m not. That’s why nothing makes sense, that’s why nothing fits, because I’ve been… I’ve been trying to be a girl, and all this time, I’m not!”

Manuel faces her– him– almost incredulously, and sees that the light has returned to Luciana’s eyes.

“And you’re a girl,” Luci says. He grins a little as he tugs on Manuel’s arm, raising a playful eyebrow. “And you couldn’t tell me?” 

Luciana is always like a fire, Manuel notices, a fire that lights everything else up in its path– Luci inspires action. He is light, at least to Manu, and Manu can’t help but follow him.

“No,” she breathes, soft and low, shaking her head. “I can’t. You can’t tell anyone. I can’t live like that, Luci– people get killed.”

People get killed, Manuel’s father stops helping her pay for classes, lives are ruined. That’s how it always goes. There are no happy endings in Manuel’s imagination.

“Yeah, well,” Luciana begins to walk to the car, letting go of Manuel’s arm, “People get killed for being regular, too. At least if I go out, I’ll go out happy.”

He rests on the hood of the car, pressing his dark hands over his chest. “I want to live my life for me. I want to do what makes me happy, Manu,” she says, eyes nearly alight, “And I’m going to do it whether Martín approves or Miguel sticks around, and my kids don’t want me to teach.

“I’ll run if I have to,” he adds. “I’ll run until I find someplace where I’m happy. I’ll keep going forward. I don’t want to live like this anymore, Manu. I want to be happy.” He holds his hand out to Manuel, who shivers, hating and adoring Luci all at once.

“If you want, you can come with me.”


	2. Spinning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second part of a likely-not-to-be-finished series that played with genders and sexualities of the Latin Hetalia cast with a few original characters. Focusing on Trans!Male Brazil and Trans!Female Chile, this series attempted to be ship-free and focus on character growth. I hope you enjoy this story.

Weeks flash by and in the midst of classes, work, and research, Luciano and Manuel can’t seem to catch a break. If Luciano isn’t researching, Manuel is hounding over him. She isn’t about to let Luciano go off and do something stupid, and as she has repeatedly explained, fruit was not an acceptable replacement for what is missing in Luciano’s underwear. Still, Luciano isn’t sure where to look and neither is Manuel, and with no centres nearby, neither of them are quite aware what they should be doing. By the end of the month two months later, with a frustrated Luciano to return to work soon and the few leads they had deemed unacceptable by Manuel’s standards, the two find themselves moping in the coffee house again.

“Why the long faces, my babies?” the manager asks, on duty as a waitress again today, as she squeezes Manuel’s cheeks together. She cocks her hip to the side and grins, looking toward Luciano as Manuel rubs the soreness from her cheeks.

“Óla, senhora Catalina,” Luciano chimes almost flirtatiously, despite the fact Catalina’s been wed to a woman for almost five years now and has been watching over the two and their friends like a big sister since they’d started visiting the cafe nearly three years before. Manuel isn’t surprised and rubs her cheeks, face a little flushed. Catalina and her wife had a magic and persuasion that could really make anyone blush, after all.

She is also fun enough to roll her eyes at Luciano and ask again, “What’s the matter with you two? My coffee should be making you smile, loves. Don’t tell me you’re not?”

Luciano’s reply is hurried, as though fearing Catalina might actually be mad. “We just- we’re having trouble— well, I’m having trouble and Manu’s helping me!”

It takes a moment for Manuel to add, “Luci needs… Binders. You know— for the chest?” She motions to her own, flat and covered by a thick sweater, and does her best not to stare at Catalina’s more supple and envy-worthy bust.

“Ah, I remember those,” Catalina says, tapping her lips with her finger. “There are these two performers who work with my friend, and I had to help one repair them for her every few months. She’s not exactly delicate, that one– kinda like you.”

“You think you can help me?” Luciano asks exuberantly, butt half out of the seat and feet already on the floor. Manuel watches the way Luciano lights up, the way fingers grip the side of the table as if he is going to fall over, and can’t help but feel a little blush of hopefulness tingling in her own chest. ”I need them- you see, I figured it out, I’m a guy now and I gotta dress like it, and the websites we looked at gave us a little information, but…” For some reason, Luciano feels his cheeks grow warm. This is supposed to be easy. He’d found the answer, after all; why shouldn’t it be easy for him to simply tell the world? 

Luciano’s tongue becomes lead as he tries to elaborate, but where he stumbles, Catalina shows grace. “Congratulations, then! Why don’t you come down after my shift? I’ll see what I can manage for you.” She is gone before Luciano can blink, and Manu looks at him with an expression clueless enough to match.

In the car later, Luciano seems restless. “She’s not going to hurt you,” Manuel finds herself mumbling, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

“I know that,” Luciano replies, pouting as he leans against the window, his cheek dragging against the glass. “I just… didn’t know that was gonna go so well. I feel like I’m dreaming.”

“Yeah, well, my gas tank knows we’re not dreaming,” Manuel remarks, flinching when Luciano pinches her arm, but laughing nonetheless.

When they arrive at Catalina’s place, Catalina opens the door and pushes at the pile of late-winter shoes that has accumulated behind it, beckoning Luciano and Manuel inside. She twirls with a flourish, putting on the best impression of a hostess she knows how.

“Can I offer you a drink?” she asks, smile as brilliant as the sun, and though neither of them are thirsty both of her guests accept a glass of water and relax against the couch. 

Manuel figures she shouldn’t be as nervous about this as Luciano is, but she’s never really seen Luciano look vulnerable too many times. Luciano is always a consistent entity of movement and strength; to see him hesitate makes Manu ill-at-ease. Luciano stares at the patterns of the fibres in the carpet as Catalina searches her closets, and his silence is stony. For a moment, Manu wonders if maybe Luciano is just as scared about all of this as she is. Maybe he’ll back out like she always did. 

But Luciano’s mood rises as soon as Catalina returns and pulls him to his feet, grasping him by the shoulders. “Up, up, up!” she commands, pulling off Luciano’s coat and overshirt, hands already full with a length of fabric. “Arms up, come on.”

In a few hours Manuel is called back into the room to see Catalina’s handiwork. Luciano’s breasts are firmly bound by a white cloth band, and he is grinning that sunshine smile that makes Manu want to smile along with him. She tosses Luciano his shirt, and he puts it on, skimming his hands over the fabric and grinning so hard at the mirror his cheeks begin to hurt. Stretching his arms up, forward, and touching his toes, he grins at Catalina and showers her in ovations.

And Manuel watches. Luciano’s fear seems to have dissipated, but Manuel is still ill-at-ease. She wonders if she’ll see that look on his face again- the way he bit his lip, how big his eyes had been. She’d never seen him look so scared before. Manuel rubs Luciano’s back as they walk out, bidding goodbye to Catalina– but her wife María catches them before they leave, and in a few minutes they have found themselves agreeing to stay for dinner.

María and Catalina sing while they cook, and for a moment the entire world is music. Manuel leans back against the chair, gently kicking Luciano’s calf, and they entertain themselves with a childish little fight as they wait. When the couple serves them dinner, Luciano eats heartily and Manuel eats what she can, but no one asks as usual. She feels a little safer, and Luciano seems right at home. 

Manuel’s only discomfort is when María looks right into her eyes and says, “That grey looks good on him!”

Catalina nods, pointing toward Manuel with her fork. “It does. It’s just a good sweater. But you know what’d look better?”

“Pink,” María replies, kissing Catalina’s cheek as if to reward her for being right on the same wavelength, “A really soft one, like roses.”

Luciano is quiet, and looks up at Manuel for a moment, who contents herself with her food and tries to convince herself that there is no way two cafe shop owners could know that she is not how she presents.

On the way home, traffic is clear, and the night roads are quiet. Luciano sits low in his seat, watching the streetlights streak by like fireflies, until Manuel puts the car into stop in front of the apartment complex their homes are in. She doesn’t leave, and neither does Luciano.

From a painful moment’s silence is born Manuel’s question: “So you’re really going through with this?” She knows the answer, of course, but she can’t keep herself from asking.

Manuel finds himself mouthing along when Luciano says, “of course,” and stops to listen when he continues. “I have to. I mean, I told you before.” He drums his fingers on the car door just beside the window, pushing and pulling the lock button. “I wanna be happy. I wanna stop looking in the mirror and being scared, you know?”

Quietly, Manuel presses her forehead to the steering wheel, letting out a breath. “I can’t do this with you.”

“That’s what you keep saying,” Luciano grumbles, lifting his feet up onto the dashboard for a moment before Manuel reaches over to swat them down. “You keep saying that, but you just don’t get it. Just give it a try. Let me help you, okay? You don’t have to do it so fast.”

Manuel leans back against her seat, opens the door, and walks around to Luciano’s side before tapping on the glass, waiting for Luciano to roll it down. “Promise me we’ll stop if I say so.”

Luciano promises, and follows Manuel into the apartment complex.

It’s a week before he gets Manuel to replace some of her shower products with those designed for women. Nothing perfumy, nothing fancy- just enough to leave a light scent, and to leave Manuel’s shower with a more feminine feel. After two weeks, Luciano’d taught her to shave her legs– though not without trouble. It seemed as though it’d be easy– “You shave every day!” Luciano had whined, and Manuel barked that it was a lot different to shave a face than to shave a leg– but Luciano was sure Manuel would get it in time. Four weeks in, Manuel bought a book of names from a magazine kiosk, keeping it on her desk and flipping through it every so often. 

She looks through it again, hiding it between the pages of a schoolbook, when Luciano speaks up to Martín and Miguel.

He sits up, crossing his arms over his knees, and nervously looks up to where the other two sit on the couch, pouring over their own studies and magazines. “Hey, so,” he murmurs, twisting a lock of his hair around his finger. “You guys think you could call me Luciano instead of Luciana?” His voice goes raspy, like something in his throat has clenched its claws around his voicebox, and he feels his cheeks start to burn. 

“What, like a boy’s name?” Martín asks, and Luciano flinches. “I told you, you’re taking this lesbian thing too seriously. Girls don’t like that, you know, that’s why they’re lesbians.”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Luciano urges, picking fibers from the carpet and sucking on his tongue so that it sticks to the roof of his mouth. “I don’t really think I’m a girl, okay? So I just want you to call me Luciano.”

It’s Miguel who answers next, before Martín can loose another comment. “But you’re so pretty,” Miguel says, and Manuel flinches as she watches, sinking behind her books and trying to focus on the text, hoping the sound of her swallowing her spit will keep the conversation out of her ears. “And you look like a girl, and you’re a good one– why would you think you’re a guy?”

Luciano picks at the fibers of the carpet more adamantly, flicking them away as he stares into the swirls the apartment-standard pattern makes. “Cos I just am, okay? That’s just what I said. I just know I am, that’s all.” His voice is sticks to his throat like peanut butter and he’s not even sure he’s really speaking at all until Martín responds.

“Right, and if I believed every queen who told me he was a lady, I’d have gotten laid a lot less,” Luciano hears, and picks up his books. Martín watches, flipping the page of his magazine slowly while Luciano shoves his crap half-hazardly into his backpack and slings it over his shoulder.

“Look, I’m gonna do my work in my own room,” he grumbles, shoving Martín forward by the head as he walks out, giving a half-apologetic stare to Manuel. As Martín rubs his head, pouting, Miguel looks to Manuel too– and Manuel isn’t really sure what she should do. She certainly can’t answer the confusion in Miguel’s eyes and certainly isn’t about to allow Martín think he’s right, so she tosses the book of names into the nearby wastebin, throws an extra key to Miguel for him to lock up when they leave, and darts into the hall after Luciano.

She sits on Luciano’s bed for a while, silently pushing her fingers through Luciano’s curls and rubbing his shoulders. Luciano stares at the wall, his back to Manuel, and he bites his lip so hard it begins to bleed and his mouth fills with a gross metal tang as he sucks on it in hopes it’ll stop quickly. He holds his arms tighter around his chest, squeezing his arms so hard he leaves little half-moons under his nails, and for once Manuel finds herself to be the only thing in the room a little less than close to crumbling.

She stays into the night, long past the hours when even Martín and his friends stay out, until she can tell by Luciano’s breathing that he’s fallen asleep. Manuel sits up, examines her hands and chest and legs one more time and pulls her knees to her chest, breathing slowly to try and keep herself from feeling how much it aches– how every pulse and breath and every vein that crosses her body beats with a dull, rhythmic soreness. 

Her breathing quickens and she wipes at her eyes, her breaths becoming shorter and more forced as the severity of their current disposition falls on her and beats upon her wide and bony shoulders, splintering over her spine and making her hurt everywhere she can think of. And as Manuel’s breaths quicken into little sobs, Luciano stirs, his arms reaching to pull Manuel closer.

So Manuel rearranges her position, fixing the pillows and coming at Luciano’s sleepy command, burrowing into the touch as she reaches around to help him out of the binder that could otherwise constrict his breathing.

“It’s gonna be alright,” Luciano manages, sloppily wiping his face with his palms, “It’s gonna be… just fine. Tomorrow, we’re gonna wake up, okay?”

“I didn’t say we weren’t,” Manuel replies, pulling the sheets over them and letting a tearful laugh escape her lips.

“Yeah, but you keep actin’ like the world’s ending,” Luciano continues, pressing his palms to Manuel’s cheeks. “If we stop or not, world’s gonna keep running without us. Doesn’t just stop cos shit doesn’t go our way, right?”

Manuel’s shoulders fall and she stares at him, Luciano and his stupid way of glowing like a candle in the dead of night, and pinches his side. “I was supposed to cheer you up, asshole.”

“You didn’t leave me alone,” Luciano tells her, and falls asleep at her side.


	3. Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third part of a likely-not-to-be-finished series that played with genders and sexualities of the Latin Hetalia cast with a few original characters. Focusing on Trans!Male Brazil and Trans!Female Chile, this series attempted to be ship-free and focus on character growth. I hope you enjoy this story.

It is only a few days before Miguel finds the strength to apologise, though he doesn’t quite understand what he’s done wrong. Still, Luciana- Luciano, he corrects himself a bit whiningly, is his room-mate, and living with a moping Luciano-a-o is just not any position he wants to be in. It’s taxing for him to think about. Was Luciana always Luciano? Or has she just gone crazy? Does she want to be Luciano or was he something she was the whole time? And why now? Why her? 

Being in the dark is not something Miguel likes– it’s about as bad as lying, really, so at least Luciano had the strength to tell him. He wonders if Luciano was scared; something like this can’t be easy. Miguel can’t even begin to imagine, let alone understand. 

Miguel catches her– him, he reminds himself worriedly, after he returns home from her classes one evening. Miguel’s made dinner, so Luciano can’t really leave. Miguel prepares the table, serves causa on hard plastic plates in bright patterns, and sits across from Luciano. He’s quieter than usual, and Luciano notices, but can’t complain; Miguel’s cooking is much too distracting for that.

“Don’t get mad,” Luciano hears, and fails to process at first. Miguel hasn’t spoken all dinner, so Luciano’s a bit surprised. “Don’t get mad,” Miguel repeats. “I just– can I ask you something?”

Luciano swallows the bite he was eating and runs a hand through his hair, suddenly a bit uncomfortable. “Yeah, I guess,” he mumbles, pushing the last bits of his causa about on the plate, “Shoot.”

Miguel’s quiet for a few minutes more, the circuits in his head working to find the words and phrases he needs to explain– to understand. “I just– I’m trying really hard, okay?” he says, his voice sheepish and small. “I don’t wanna make you feel bad. We’re friends, right?”

Luciano nods, suddenly feeling ashamed. He’s making things difficult for everyone and he knows it, and part of him kind of hates it– but he deserves it, right? He’s just doing what he needs to do, that’s all. (It’s what he has to do, right?)

Miguel shifts, and continues, eyes wide with concern. “I just wanna understand,” he explains. “I don’t wanna say I won’t ever get it but I just– I mean, you know about Julio, but that’s nothing like what this is.”

A part of Luciano is relieved. Miguel’s an earnest guy, not hateful in the slightest– at least not to him. And they are friends, they get along like two peas in a pod when it came to all the things they love. Luciano smiles and takes another bite of his causa. “So you don’t get what it means.”

Miguel nods, and Luciano continues. “Just, look. When I was a kid, nothing made sense, you see? It’s like, I was always doing the stuff I liked to do, and pai was nice about it, but he would always kind of get sad when I wouldn’t do girly things. And I tried really hard to act like a girl, yanno?” Luciano waves his fork about as he talks, clearing his throat. “And then– everyone I dated would be ridiculous! Like it’s my fault, or something, that I didn’t like them looking at my chest or stuff like that. Nothing really added up.

“And then, then Manuel told me–” for a moment, Luciano hesitates, an ill taste on the back of his tongue. This could be a bad idea, but maybe he could phrase it right. “…Manuel told me that sometimes people are born with a body that thinks it’s one way, but a mind that thinks it’s something else. So even though I got assigned to one team, I’m actually a player for the other team, get it?”

Miguel sits back and contemplates for a moment, standing up to take his own dishes to the sink and sitting back down. “So it means we can do guy stuff together now, right?”

Luciano grins like the sun, and Miguel grins right back, and the two of them devolve into little laughs before they sober up again. “It’s hard, okay?” Miguel reminds Luciano, who nods a bit sadly. It’s hard even for him to remember things sometimes. Luciano gets up to put his own plates away, and when he passes, Miguel grabs him by the arm. “So is that what’s wrong with Manuel?”

For a few moments, Luciano can’t speak. He’d never have thought Miguel would have noticed; Miguel seemed like even more of an airhead than Luciano did. Manuel was good at covering up that she was upset, too– it had taken Manuel saying something for Luciano to really trust his suspicions that Manuel wasn’t okay.

“It’s just, he’s always sad,” Miguel continues, looking a bit embarrassed. “He won’t hang out with us, and when he does he’s okay for a while but then he looks like he just wants to go. And you said– you said nothing’s right when you’re mixed up like that, right?”

“…Yeah,” Luciano replies, continuing to the sink to put his dishes down. “She’s not really Manuel, yanno?”

Miguel goes quiet, sinking in his seat and shoving his hands into his pockets. Everything makes sense– but nothing is right, and Miguel can’t think of an answer. Sheepishly, he offers, “So, bar on Saturday?”

“You’re paying if Perú loses the next game.”

Before they can manage to hang out together, Luciano lets the word slip. 

“You told him?” Manuel’s voice isn’t a shout of anger, but of fear. “How could you tell him? What were you thinking?!”

“Look, I told you,” Luciano grumbles, growling into his books and pulling his knees closer to his chest from his place on the couch. It wasn’t as if he was wrong to do so. Manuel was overreacting. “He was gonna find out sometime! And he asked. I told him what’s up with me and he said you were always sad so that has to be what’s wrong with you! What was I supposed to do, lie to him?”

“Yes!” Manuel hisses, pulling at her hair in frustration. “Lie, or just tell him you’re not allowed to say! Why the hell would you think that would be a good idea?!”

“You promised you’d try changing anyway! You’re gonna have to let him know sometime!”

“I didn’t want him to know. I didn’t want anyone to know. You weren’t even supposed to know!” Manuel lets out another hiss of air, trying to keep herself calm as she presses her fist to the wall. “What if he tells Martín?” The question isn’t angry like Luciano expects; it’s fearful, shaky, and unsure. Luciano shifts uncomfortably, starting to put his books away.

“I’ll tell him not to, it’s not that hard,” he mumbles, picking his bag off the floor. “Look, I was just thinking he could help. It’s not that big a deal!”

“It’s not a big deal to you,” Manuel corrects him, nearly shaking. She’s upset, and it’s obvious, and she isn’t sure what to do. “I just– I’m not you, Luciano. I can’t make these changes fast like you, if I can even do it at all! Do you even think before you do shit?!”

“I was thinkin’ it’d help,” Luciano mumbles a bit bitterly, heading for the door. “Look, I’ll tell him to shut up about it. I’ll tell him I lied, whatever.” He leaves without another word, and Manuel presses her back against the wall and slides to the floor. 

This cannot happen this way for her. She shouldn’t have opened her mouth, she shouldn’t have let Miguel have the chance to find out. Martín will be worse, she’s sure of it. He’ll bring up the times they dated, he’ll laugh, he’ll say she’s an idiot. Manuel gets to her feet and sits in the bathroom, shaking and sweating and burying her face in her hands. Luciano’s an idiot, but Manuel is the bigger idiot. She never should have agreed to anything, never should have told him, never should have let him figure any of this out. Everything within her burns and shakes, and by the time she falls asleep on the couch, it’s with the weight of tears on her eyes and the sting of antiseptic in the marks on her stomach.

Luciano spends his evening in the bar with Miguel. It was supposed to be fun, but part of him is flooded with the bitter bile of guilt eating at the edge of his mind.

“So,” Miguel asks after two beers (his two beers to Luciano’s one), waiting until the rest of the bar had quieted after a goal on the television, “Did I miss something?”

“Crap, I’m sorry,” Luciano sighs, whining loudly as he presses his forehead to the table. “I told her I told you and now she’s pissed! I don’t get what she wants!”

“She wh– oh.” Miguel frowns immediately, shrinking in his seat. He doesn’t have an answer any more than Luciano does.

“You can’t tell Martín, okay?” Luciano demands, flicking beads of condensation off the side of his beer bottle as he pouts, cheek pressed up against the table. “I just wanted to help her. She won’t do anything! She keeps saying she’s sad, and she won’t do a damn thing about it!” Miguel gives him no solutions, so Luciano continues. “I told you cos you noticed. What’s she even scared of? You wouldn’t do anything.” 

Miguel tilts the bottle of beer in his hand around in circles, watching the warm remnants of his drink slide around in the ark glass. He wouldn’t do anything, no, but that didn’t mean no one would, and the thought of that started to make Miguel feel a little sick. “Just… tell him– her, whatever– tell Manuel it’s fine.” His voice is quiet among the sound of the rambunctious crowd around them, and he offers again, “I won’t tell Martín.” He’ll forget, even, if it means things will be okay.

Luciano rests his chin on the table, looking up at Miguel with tired eyes. “We’ll fix it,” he says, “but I guess maybe we should go home.”

——

“Why are you here so late?” Miguel’s brother asks when Miguel finally walks in, putting his keys in the bowl by the door and flopping over on the couch.

“Hey, Julito,” Miguel murmurs, pouting into the couch cushions and sighing loudly. Julio crosses his arms, leaning back as he watches his brother mope. The full-time student usually gets to the apartment before his brother does anyway, but he hadn’t known Miguel was going out. 

“I asked why you’re here so late!” Julio says, getting only an annoyed moan from Miguel. “You didn’t even leave a note! You said you’d always leave notes. Why didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” Miguel whines, sitting up. “I went to the bar with Luciano, and she– he went to Manuel’s apartment so I guess he’ll be back here later. I thought you had a group meeting today?” Julio becomes as quiet as stone, turning to walk away, and Miguel furrows his brow. “You didn’t go, did you?”

“I hate those stupid meetings,” Julio replies, walking toward his and Miguel’s room, flopping down on his bed.

“Nothing’s going to get better if you don’t go, Julito!” Miguel complains, following him to the door before Julio hurries back to it, determined to keep him from coming in.

“Nothing you say is gonna fix it. Nothing I do is going to fix it. Some shit just can’t be fixed, alright?!” Slamming the door and locking it, Julio sits on the bed and tugs at his hair. “When are you going to fucking get it?! Nothing’s going to change and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

Miguel kicks the door, frustrated. That seems to be everyone’s answer to him lately; he can’t do a damn thing, he can’t change a damn thing, and the people who can do it… won’t. “You know, maybe I can’t change anything,” he barks, starting to walk away. “But at least I give enough of a damn to try! Good night, Julio.”

He slams the front door behind him, and walks out into the coolness of the night without his jacket. He doesn’t have power over anything these days. Maybe things are changing, but it’s clear there needs to be more– and Miguel just doesn’t know what or how. He doesn’t get it, or what he’s supposed to do. 

Maybe Julio’s right. Maybe there’s nothing Miguel can do. But everyone else seems to be needing to do things and they won’t, or they can’t, and there has to be something Miguel can do. When he stops to pick up a pack of gum or something distracting, he spies something much more interesting, and with it comes a new answer.

He returns to the apartment to see a tired Luciano sitting on the couch and watching football replays. Dropping a carton of ice cream and a bottle of coke on the coffee table, Miguel returns to the kitchen for glasses.

“You apologise?”

“Yup.”

“She okay now?”

“That’s what she said.”

Luciano sinks deeper into his seat, taking the glass Miguel hands him and holding it up so Miguel can drop in a few scoops of ice cream and top it off with a foamy dose of coke. He serves his own and takes a few gulps, wiping his mouth before looking at Luciano with a grin and hugging Luciano around his shoulders.

“Luci, tonight, I need you to tell me everything about you.”


	4. Adjustments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourth part of a likely-not-to-be-finished series that played with genders and sexualities of the Latin Hetalia cast with a few original characters. Focusing on Trans!Male Brazil and Trans!Female Chile, this series attempted to be ship-free and focus on character growth. I hope you enjoy this story.

It is much to Luciano’s chagrin that he and Miguel can see Martín walking toward the café with his clique in tow as Luciano leans against the broad store-front window from his chair. It’s much to his comfort when Martín leaves them at the door.

”Well I mean, he better have,” Miguel mumbles when Luciano voices his concern, staring a bit absently at his cup of coffee and yawning. “We said breakfast together, not with them. Don’t worry so much.” 

Luciano wishes he could communicate exactly why he is so worried– why every interaction with Martín leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth– but Miguel is the blonde idiot’s best friend. It’s not like he’d get it. When Martín approaches the table, Luciano stiffens in his seat and presses his back to the chair, gripping the handle of his mug so hard it almost shakes with his wrist. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Martín laughs, gripping Miguel’s shoulder and pulling him close for a hug. “And morning, princess.”

Luciano nearly rises from his chair, ready to hiss at him– but Miguel squeezes Martín’s shoulder back, pulling him so close their faces almost touch and causing the tall Martín to stoop down to Miguel’s chair. “Come on, causa, lighten up!” he tells Martín, grinning so hard Martín isn’t sure Miguel’s face will stay attached, “You’re just mad he’d look better in one of those suits than you.”

“You’re hurting my shoulder,” Martín mumbles, pulling away and trying to wipe the flush of embarrassment from his face. “Yeah, whatever. Hey, Luciano.” Luciano grunts a reply, eyes flashing up to look at Miguel, who sits across from him with the brightest smile on his tan face. Martín sits between them, distracted.

Things have been like this so much lately. Martín knows he’s right; his friends affirmed his position on the matter. So why has it been that even Miguel jumped on him for this? Luciana can’t win everyone over with her pitiful little story. Things don’t work that way. Life isn’t that easy. 

Or at least, in Martín’s world, it isn’t.

Then again, things always seem to go Luciana’s way. Today’s no different, Martín supposes, and takes his mate without sugar, listening to Miguel babble on about the menu he has prepared for his class. 

When he leaves for work, his mouth tastes bitter.

—-

Manuel walks into the mall and takes a deep breath, holding it, forming lies in her head. She moves one foot forward, boots creasing under the fabric of her loose jeans, and grips her own arm, biting her lip and looking around. There are far too many strong scents; soaps, perfumes, lotions, and she almost wants to be sick. She shouldn’t be here, she should turn around and leave–

“You need help, nene?” comes a voice, and Manuel is surprised to look up at someone she presumes is a woman. The figure stands with long, auburn hair that turns to a pleasant orange at its tips, and she wears a cape-jacket and skinny jeans with heels. She’s got an island-y accent that Manuel can’t place, and she can’t seem to make herself respond, either.

The woman only smiles and speaks again, her voice low and smooth. “Shopping for your girlfriend? You look like you’re gonna pass out.” She puts a hand on Manuel’s shoulder, and Manuel nods. 

“Uh– she just… She just moved here,” she manages, and the woman before her makes a face. 

“Ah, I see. Well, let me help you out, okay? You can call me Mercy, but if you see me later, you can call me Manny.” Before Manuel can ask, Mercy continues. “I’m waiting for my wife but it looks like she’s busy. This won’t take too long.”

She ushers Manuel in by the arm and toward the hygiene products. “So she just moved in, left all her supplies at home, right?” Mercy asks, rubbing Manuel’s back before putting her hands in her pockets. “What’s her name? What’s she like?”

Manuel hasn’t thought that far, and nearly chokes, her face flushing scarlet. “She’s– she’s shy,” she manages, her throat dry as a desert, “Uhm, she likes… flowers, I guess, stuff that’s quiet.”

“And her name?”

“Javiera,” Manuel spits, hoping Mercy won’t recognise the artist of the song currently playing from the mall speakers.

“Cute,” Mercy replies, smiling as she pours over the assorted array of brightly coloured potions and perfumes with enough ‘catchy’ names to make Manuel’s head ache. “Florals,” Mercy mumbles, pulling a few name-types from the shelf, “She a small girl?” 

“Tiny,” Manuel remarks in a voice just as small.

“This kind of thing, these names,” Mercy explains, leaning over and showing Manuel the scents; things with rose hips and sweet pea and other soft little scents, “These are what she’ll like. If you go with things that smell like fruits, she’ll smell like a teenager.” Mercy seems proud to have drawn out a little chuckle from Manuel. 

“Just remember,” Mercy says, “never use them all at once.”

A sense of unease shifts over Manuel’s stomach but as if life is moving too fast for him, Mercy turns toward the door where a young man waits. His skin is tan, darker than Mercy’s, but he’s got blonde curls all about his head.

“There’s my wife, I’ve gotta go,” Mercy mumbles, and Manuel frowns. “Good luck with Javi, alright? Hope I see you around!” She walks to the man at the door and kisses him.

“Hey, baby,” the blonde says, gripping Mercy’s hands to look up at her. “Being nosy, huh?”

“Hardly. I was helping out, Ibis,” Mercy mumbles, pinching the shorter one’s cheek. “Come on, let’s get going. I doubt that kid’s ever seen a drag couple before.”

Mercy’s wife laughs and leads her away, and Manuel stares after them, mouth agape. She doesn’t remember to assure the cashier later that she is buying these things for her imaginary girlfriend, and later decides that it was probably best she hadn’t mentioned it.

—

Luciano’s day isn’t quite as successful. He’s used to it, or so he thought; used to bringing his guitar, Xururuca, to play songs for the kids every friday. He adores that guitar, old as it is. The protective plate under the strings is gone and has been replaced by scratches from pick after pick, and the nylon strings are well worn but still not quite in need of replacement. The wood is yellowed and still he loves it, and Xururuca has been his since the first birthday he had in highschool.

His father gave it to him, as well as the cross around his neck, and the guitar has been one of Luciano’s most treasured items. Today, however, it nearly makes him feel sick to sing.

“Their teacher has such a pretty voice,” one of the parents comments, and Luciano knows he should take it as a compliment but a knot twists in his stomach and his fingers strike a sour note that he passes off with a nervous laugh.

The kids sing, anyway, and that should be all that matters, but part of Luciano aches. He puts the guitar away and takes the children outside for phys ed class, but his heart and his voice still lay inside Xururuca’s black case.

The next week the children ask where his guitar is, and Luciano shrugs a little, smiling as usual and setting up the radio. “It broke,” he comments simply, and presses play on some old cassette that makes him nearly cringe.

He doesn’t dare sing along.  
——

Later in Manuel’s apartment, he holds up a few of his old shirts– ones that never fit or that he always kept in the back of his closet.

“Look, we don’t even have to go out tonight,” he tells her, holding one of the dressier, lacier shirts up to Manuel’s shoulders.

“It’s going to look ridiculous,” Manuel mumbles in protest, finding the lines in the carpet much more interesting than Luciano’s determined expression. He undoes the buttons on the shirt, forcing it into Manuel’s hands. “Just put it on. I’m the only one who’s gonna see. We’re just hanging out! And if you like it, next time we’ll get Catalina and María to help.”

Manuel tries on shirts, but teases Luciano, because she is much too tall to fit into Luciano’s old trousers. Luciano passes her a dress next, and Manuel holds her breath. 

“I shouldn’t,” she remarks, and Luciano rolls his eyes.

“I shouldn’t pinch you, but if you don’t put it on, I will,” he threatens, taking an old hat– the baggy knit kind with a tight brim– and putting it over Manuel’s head to make it look as though her hair is longer and hidden in the hat.

Manuel puts the dress on, finally, and it fits almost well enough, but the sleeves hang over her long, thin arms and her chest is nowhere near enough to change the shape of the button-up top. She crosses her arms and leans her weight on one leg, and Luciano leans back on his heels to observe.

“Damn, girl,” Luciano laughs, crossing his own arms as though surveying a masterpiece. “Why don’t you wear shorts more often? Your legs look good.”

Manuel can’t help but laugh along, giving Luciano a half-hearted punch to the arm. When she hears the door to the apartment open, however, she freezes like a deer, fingers clenching in the fabric of Luciano’s hoodie. Luciano freezes, too, swallowing his spit when he hears Miguel’s voice from the livingroom.

“Hey, Luci, have you seen my wallet?” he asks, walking to Luciano’s door and opening it. “I was going out with– she’s wearing a dress?”

Luciano looks up at Manuel for a moment, then stutters, managing to get his bearings. “You left it in the fruit bowl in the kitchen.”

“I left what?”

“Your wallet,” Luciano repeats, and the gears in Miguel’s head seem to turn again as he rubs his temple, staring at the carpet and walking out backward, eyes on Manuel. 

“Yeah,” Miguel mumbles, “Right. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess. Night.” He turns and closes the door behind him, and Manuel looks to Luciano.

“What did he ask?” Manuel pushes the too-long wisps of hair from her face, sitting on Luciano’s bed almost breathlessly.

“He asked if you were wearing a dress,” Luciano answers, “He asked if she’s wearing a dress.”

Miguel takes the stairs down to his car instead of the elevator and remembers the days he and Manuel spent in high-school classes bickering like fools, trying to figure out when exactly his mind decided that thinking of Manuel as a woman was such an easy thing to do.


End file.
